


Words You Said

by solfell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solfell/pseuds/solfell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Laura leave New York, but the city isn't the only thing left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words You Said

There’s a woman in New York. There are many women in New York, of course, but this particular woman is named Camille and she’s in an apartment that isn’t hers, surrounded by the possessions of two people she loves but will never see again.

The crank-buzz-hum of the city is muted here; heavy, olive green drapes block out the mid-afternoon sunlight and the front room is like a womb, warm and dark and lived-in. There’s a sofa and a love seat—second-hand but still good—throw pillows in the corners, a crocheted blanket over the back of the sofa. The television is flanked by stacks of DVD and CD cases—the Buffy collection is Laura’s, the Miyazaki films are Derek’s. There are more classical CDs than most people would expect a duo of werewolves to have. A DVR remote sits on the coffee table beside a mug and a haphazard pile of magazines.

 _Writers and Poets_ , _The New Yorker_ , _Time_ , _National Geographic_ , _PC Gamer_. The bookshelf on the other side of the sofa, the one tucked in the corner by the window, has an array of literature. Everything from Machiavelli to Harry Potter. There’s even a couple of picture books on the bottom shelf.  _Where the Wild Things Are_  and  _If You Give a Moose a Muffin_. _  
_

Laura used to talk about how she loved the smell of books. They met among books, five years ago, and for some unknown reason, it didn’t feel like they were strangers. Camille didn’t know who Laura was, but it hardly mattered. Falling in love with her was easy. It was so easy it scared her. But Camille was never the sort of person to run from the things that kept her awake at night.

She soon learned that smoke still clung to Laura’s hair and clothes and her face was smudged with soot, even if she couldn’t see it. Laura was nineteen and struggling to keep up with her education while her kid brother moved through life like a ghost. When they met in the bookshop on Crosby street, Laura was just sitting there, staring at an open textbook, trying to figure out how she could live for both her brother and herself. She didn’t know how to breathe for two people, she admitted in a low tone.

Camille bought her a tea with honey. Laura’s smile was bleak but honest.

Camille looks around the apartment. At her feet are boxes, a bunch of boxes to fill with things that aren’t hers but she doesn’t do that just yet.

Derek called two weeks ago. “Camille,” he said, voice rough and tired and she could just imagine him—hollow-eyed and pale. “Laura’s dead.”

"What? How? No, Derek, no," she whimpered. Her throat felt like it was collapsing, her chest, ribs, lungs caved inwards. A deep, bruising sense of dread swept upwards from her stomach. Dead? How could she be dead? How could Camille never see her again? How? Why? "That’s not true. Please, tell me that’s not true."

"I’m sorry," he told her, as if it wasn’t his loss but hers, all hers and she felt a stab of shame at her selfishness, felt like she was going to vomit. Derek’s sister was dead and there she was, his sister’s girlfriend, acting like the world had broken.

Except the world had broken, for both of them, but in different ways.

"Are you—? Do you need—?" She didn’t know how to articulate, but then that was always her problem. Laura was the articulate one, and she used words with heartbreaking precision.

"I’m fine."

She still doesn’t believe him. She never believes him when he tells her he’s fine. Derek’s always been a puzzle to her, but she knows him. She knows he’s sullen and serious and a brat—she watched him grow up, from teenager into a young adult. She helped him move into his freshman year dorm. She and Laura brought him to a bar on his twenty-first birthday, even if the alcohol didn’t do anything. Camille even took his calls late at night when he needed to talk to someone who wasn’t Laura—let him rant about classes or his roommate or the fact that he’s still broken inside and what’s the point to anything?    

Derek never said anything about a funeral or where he was or when he was coming back, but then again, Laura never said where she was going, either. She just called from the airport and didn’t make any promises about a return. Camille shouldn’t be so angry about that, but she is. She knows the Hales are werewolves and that makes things dangerous, she  _knows_ , but she’s a New Yorker and she’s human. She always makes promises that she’ll come back, that’s she’ll be all right. Promises that she doesn’t know if she can keep.

Yesterday Derek called her again. He asked, in stilted tones, to pack up the apartment. To store his and Laura’s life where it can’t be lived anymore.  It’s an apologetic request, but Derek sounds exhausted and Camille couldn’t be angry with him. 

"Is there anything I can do?" Camille asked.

"Our lease is up at the end of the month," he replied. "I wish I didn’t—"

"It’s okay," she said. It was, really, because deep in her gut she knows she’s useless otherwise. She’s been useless, fighting back the stinging behind her eyes and wandering through her routines, waiting for everything to dissolve. Her life is in stasis. "I can do this," she told Derek. "Be safe."

He laughed—a short, humorless sound that turned into a painful inhale. “Right, yeah.”

"I’ll text you? About where everything is," she said.

"Thank you."

He said nothing about coming back. Camille wonders if he thinks he has anything to come back to.

It would be easier to put everything into storage somewhere. Easier to put everything out of sight, tucked in some anonymous, concrete room.

It would be easier, but Camille’s already made space for everything back at her own place, in the spare room.

She leaves the empty boxes by the door and goes to Laura’s room. It’s messy. Clothes all over the floor, blinds half-drawn, used cups on her desk. Her bed’s unmade. Camille lays down and wraps the quilt over her shoulders. She presses her face into Laura’s pillow. She breathes, though it’s one of the hardest things to do.

The last time they were in this bed together, Laura said, “You know, I don’t think Derek would mind if you moved in.”

Camille grinned. “Yeah? Would you mind?”

"I could be persuaded," Laura replied and Camille pressed kisses to her forehead, cheeks, collarbone.

Camille squeezes her eyes shut, curls deeper into Laura’s bed. That sense of dread she felt when Derek first called never went away. It’s sits heavy on her chest. She’s never going to see Laura again. She’s here, and Laura’s just  _gone_.

She takes a shuddering breath and pushes away from the bed. Packing everything up is going to take days. 


End file.
